Cross the Line If You Wanted It
by ag-sasami
Summary: Tim takes some initiative that's not actually motivated by blood loss. A little Dick/Tim for Red Robin #12.


A/N: Takes place near the end of Red Robin #12, when Tim wakes up in the cave infirmary with Alfred, Damian, Steph, and Dick hovering around.

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><p>Maybe it was the unnecessary slow brush of Dick's callused thumb across his collarbone, or just the overwhelming sense of finally being home. Whatever the case, Tim suddenly finds the stretch of the batsuit's collar over Dick's shoulders and the low dip of the neckline exposing his throat especially distracting. Out loud he's saying that they're brothers and how implicitly he trusts Dick. In his head though, he's chalking up the heat coiling low in his gut to a side effect of blood loss and head trauma because Dick hasn't had this effect on him in years. He'd squelched this feeling for all the reasons he can't seem to remember right now. Vertigo has set the room spinning around, verging on seriously unpleasant, in perfect counterpoint to the thoughts whirring in his brain. They <em>aren't<em> brothers; not really.

"Can you give us a minute? We'll be right up." He casts a sideways glance at Dick, swinging his legs around to dangle off the long edge of the triage table as the others head up the stairs and out of the cave. When they're gone Dick turns back to him.

"So what's—?" Tim braces a hand between his own legs on the table so he can lean forward. Reaching out to slip his finger under the edge of the batsuit he tugs Dick down and toward him. "-up?"

They're close enough now that he feels Dick's breath hitch in a puff over his lips; close enough that Tim knows Dick can feel the slight hesitation in the tension of his arm and the heat radiating off his bandaged skin. Time seems to expand. The moment stretches out and then compresses into the singular sensations of Tim's lips pressed soft and insistent against Dick's pliant mouth; the collar of the batsuit pulled taught across shoulders; the cool edges of the table pressing into his thighs; the hard line of someone else's muscle and bone gripped beneath his fingers.

He smells the city on Dick's skin, the smoke and blood and sweat of a night on patrol. The hair at the back of his neck is still sweat-damp and sticking to his skin where Tim's fingers are tangled in it. And he may have set all of this in motion, but Dick is the one taking control as he licks into Tim's open mouth slick and hot, tracing along the backs of his teeth. The table isn't wide enough in this direction for Dick to be leaning into him and pushing him down. But it's exactly what he does until Tim's forced to prop himself up on his elbow with Dick's arm snaked between his arm and his body. The hand still resting on his hip is tightening, each finger a point of sharp pressure.

Somewhere in the fuzzy heat of his brain Tim remembers that family and friends are upstairs waiting for them and he has no idea how long they've been down here escalating this. And shit. _Shit. _They were supposed to be right up, but Dick is pressed against him like every fantasy he's spent years denying and he doesn't want to stop this. Not now. Not after all this time and distance. But he can't seem to slow his breathing, even when Dick pulls back far enough to speak, to press words against Tim's mouth. "Tim. What are you doing?" Dick's words are ragged and hoarse, breathless as they share air.

"I missed you." Tim breathes out in a harsh whisper. Dick pulls back further, resting his forehead against Tim's and closing his eyes. His long lashes flutter against his cheeks as he chuckles softly.

"Is that right?" His tone is amused and a current of laughter runs beneath it as Dick drawls out the words. And he would. He _would_ be flippant right now of all times. Now, when the situation calls for anything but levity. It's a sucker punch that he _knows_ Dick didn't intend, but it hurts all the same. The sharp exhalation that hisses between his teeth comes out sounding soft and hurt in the obvious sort of way that Tim avoids.

"We should go before someone comes looking for us," Tim says, pressing his hand flat against Dick's chest and pushing them both upright again. For a moment the room lurches with a wave of fresh vertigo as Tim stands to retreat. Their bodies are aligned hip to shoulder and he hates that he has to suppress the shiver of pleasure that runs through him. _This_, he thinks, _was a terrible idea_.

"Tim..." Dick says his name like a question and an apology and a reprimand all at once. Tim finds himself relieved at the sense of confusion, because it would be beyond fairness for this to be easy for Dick while he is eaten alive with anxiety. As it is, he's going to go up those stairs as though nothing ever happened, even while alarm bells ring in his head and his peripheral vision swims. And he knows that Dick, whether he likes it or not, is going to let him walk away.


End file.
